Sixth Sense
by Silent Amethyst
Summary: For so long it only brought her grief despite her occasional ignorance of it.In the end,though, Winry finally got the closure she'd always needed. Anime-verse; T rating for implied adult theme.


If you've read my fic _Little Wonders_, this is one of the earlier themes that I permanently deleted from the series. "Dying", as it was formerly known, is now completely renewed and much better than its predecessor.

If you have no clue what I'm talking about, that's okay. Ignore it. Just… enjoy the story.

_Fullmetal Alchemist _is a toy that I cannot keep. I'm only allowed to play with it.

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**Sixth Sense**

Sheska is right there beside you on the platform, crying as the train once again takes your friends away from you. You know just as much as she does, that the stakes are high for the two on the westward locomotive, straight into the danger zone. You know that the chances for them coming back unscathed are acute, yet all you can do is let the wind blow at your hair as the last car chugs by.

You should be crying, bawling like a child who lost her favorite toy.

Yet you aren't.

Have you really become so desensitized by there walking headlong back into danger? Has it occurred so many times that you no longer have the capacity to care? Have you just not realized and appreciated the magnitude of what is happening yet? Or are you just not letting yourself?

That must have been it.

You won't let it get to you. You can not stop believing in them. You have to believe that everything will be okay, just as they were every time before.

It's hard. It hurts. But you have to be strong.

You have to be strong so that gut-wrenching feeling pulsating deep within your chest doesn't tear you apart.

If you aren't, none of you are ever going to make it back home.

.

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More than twenty four hours have passed since they left now. The sun has long since set into the horizon and the stars twinkle in the sky. Things have quieted down around the house since supper ended; a solemner event than usual. It was time to relax and settle down. Yet you've been restless all evening.

Chills keep wracking your body, keeping you from getting anything done. You don't know what the cause of them is, but you can't help the feeling that something is terribly, _terribly_ wrong.

Something is out of place and you don't know what it is. It's incredibly frustrating, because you can't make it go away.

You grit your teeth together, trying very hard to focus on the arm you need to finish for the farmer on the far side of the village, but your mind keeps taking you away. It worries you, scares you, whatever's wrong. And your hands shake as you try to turn the bolt in the shoulder.

You grow even more aggravated as the shivers slacken your grip on the wrench, tearing up your eyes.

The wrench _he _bought for you_. _

The tool slips from her grip, out of her control, falling with a loud clatter atop the arm that slid off the workbench and onto the ground.

You put your elbows on the bench and press the palms of your hands hard against your stinging eyes.

That horrible feeling you ignored yesterday cannot be ignored anymore. You can't take it, and choked sobs begin to escape your throat, distracting you from the steps coming up the stairs and down the hall.

"Winry? I heard something fall. Are you alright?"

You hastily try to suck it up as you drop to the floor and gather up the mess you made, nodding your head fervently, muttering: "I'm not hurt. I'm fine. It was just an accident." Your bangs curtain over your eyes, concealing their redness and wetness.

Your grandma places a hand on your shoulder, keeping you from rising back up to set the arm and wrench back onto the workbench, forcing you to look into her eyes. She doesn't say anything, but that analyzing gaze makes you feel as if she's reading your very soul, seeing the qualms you've desperately kept hidden.

Hidden from who? Yourself, mostly, you suppose.

With a single pat the hand slips away. "You should get some rest." The older woman started back towards the door, without looking back. "You shouldn't worry so much. They're going to be okay."

A part of you whispers a question: _why can't you look at me and say that?_

You leave that question unvoiced because that horrid intuition is already answering it for you.

It's because you know _nothing_ isokay.

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.

A few days later, Rose, that Lior girl you remember the brothers speaking about, shows up at your doorstep with a baby in arms and eleven year old in tow.

That eleven year old is Al. You only know that because he looks exactly the same as that boy in the pictures in the armoire.

He startled to see you, just as you are of him. You aren't who he remembers you to be, though. On the other hand, you remember everything about him.

You soon find out that he doesn't remember much of anything.

Secretly and regretfully—because it's so selfish of you to think this way—what's worse to you is that he came back to you alone.

You blame yourself for that fact. It's ludicrous to do so, you know. You don't need anybody to tell you that. Whatever happened would have happened regardless. But you weren't strong enough. Despite the odds you didn't keep your faith.

And now, neither of them made it home. Not really.

That night, you do not sleep. Into the pillow, staring out at the starry sky, you mourn over your loses and your guilt. And as you do you clutch the doll they made for you to your chest, because despite how much it hurts to remember, it is the last _real _memoir that you have of them.

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Two years ago, that night, was the last time you allowed yourself the luxury of crying.

You hate to admit that was only possible because Al left with Izumi to retrain… so he could find a way to bring Ed back. It was easier to accept the situation when he was gone, so you could allude yourself into thinking nothing had changed from the previous four years they were journeying. But you did endear those brief visits Al would make—much more frequently than Ed ever did, you once bitterly joked. Every time he did come by your hope would be renewed by the new findings he returned with, the stories he occasionally shared with you of his dreams.

You were able to hope that some un-foretold day, everything _would _be okay again.

You hoped, but that was all. You could never place confidence in that wishful thinking.

Two long years later spent grieving and accepting and waiting; and now both of them were right here within reach, almost as though nothing had gone horribly wrong over half a decade ago. One was behind you and the other below, staring awestruck back up at you.

You're so happy you could cry; so, so happy that it quells the sense of dread smoldering within you.

But rather than let those joyous droplets fall, you stumble to your knees and embrace the man that magically appeared from the sky below your feet and landed right before your eyes.

Sweet mercy had finally been granted you. Nothing at all could take that away from you right now. Not even the warning voice in your head crying that this is all too good to be true.

Right now, you won't commit your attention to anyone but Ed.

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You won't ever regret not listening to that voice in your head, despite the hurt you could have saved yourself otherwise. That was the last time you'll ever see him again… either of them, really. But for now you're only concerned about him.

He never said he was leaving forever. He never said goodbye—and you hope that's because he didn't know. Neither did you say it either, nor anything else that you wished or will wish you said. When he ran off after you replaced his automail, neither of you knew what was going to happen.

You only knew when it did.

And because you know him, that ugly feeling in your gut suddenly made all the more sense.

If the choice came down to you or the world, there would be no doubt in your mind which one he would choose.

The need of many is greater than the need of one, even if that one is your best friend.

You _hope_ you were that much to him, at least.

And you selfishly hope that, at the very least, that decision was not an easy one to make, because now you'll never know for sure.

There are a lot of things you'll never know now. You don't need instinct to tell you that.

You don't need it to tell you that right now is a good time to cry, either.

At least this time you've beaten Sheska to it.

.

.

Years and years and years have gone, amassed together in one fluid swipe. You hardly have the patience or will to identify the events that marked memorable times in your life. There are only a few, sadly, that you can recall without a thought; ones that you'd rather have forgotten and left with the hands of time, because they all mark the best of the worst times in your life.

The day you heard your parents were dead: 14 September 03.

The day their mother died: 26 June 04.

The day they left Resembool for the first time: 3 October 10.

The day he came back and the day they left forever: 18 July 17.

The day your grandmother died: 16 November 18.

The day Den died: 7 February 19.

The day you left Resembool: 17 May 19.

Fortunately you at least remember the day's your son and daughter was born. Your darkest secret is that you wish you didn't remember your wedding day; it had been perfect on everyone's terms but your own: the man you _wanted_ to marry wasn't there. Only now can you openly admit that to yourself.

You loved the man you did, you won't deny that. You wouldn't have married him otherwise. He was perfectly compatible, agreeable in every way, and everything that _wasn't_ what you would have been happiest with.

He died a few months ago.

Your children are grown, long since with families of their own.

You're alone again, but at least this time it doesn't hurt so much.

Maybe that's why you decided to pack up and travel back to Resembool for the first time in over nearly forty five years: you weren't hurting enough.

You must be a sadist.

You don't know where exactly you're going to go in your childhood hometown. You haven't visited any of your dead family since the day you left, so what point was there in doing so now? And you sold the house; it wasn't like you could go asking for it back or to go inside or anything. You weren't terribly close to any of your _other _friends in the town, either, so there was no reason to look up and visit them.

You only know that you want to go _home_, so when you get there you decide to just follow your feet.

When you arrive at that destination, you don't really question it. But you are amazed that this charred mess of remains still hasn't been cleaned out or withered away by the elements.

_Their _old home… oddly that's where you feel the closest to home, more so than you have in years. Maybe because it's the most corporal facet remaining of them in this world. The rest are all facts and photos and memories.

Hours and hours pass since you arrived to that sight. It's been many years since you've watched a sunset from these lush green hills, and it's as beautiful as you remember it to be, the setting so serene and nostalgic.

Its colors remind you of him.

Bright, exciting red intermingles with the dark of night, the vibrancy of his personality with the shadows of his past; at the center of this painted persona, the burnished gold sphere having the wonderful capacity to blind you with its magnificence, and much too great for your short, flimsy arms grasp and hold onto.

Of all things, it makes you smile.

You start to reconsider the purpose behind your traveling here. Maybe it wasn't because you weren't hurting enough. Maybe it was really because you've been hurting for long enough.

Whatever the reason, you sigh contentedly and stretch your legs out into the chartreuse blades. You fall back on your palms and tilt your neck up to the sky above you, eyes closing wistfully. Even at this time of day, the sun is still warm against your aged skin. You forget about everything; everything that's shattered your world and everything that came as a result. None of those dates exist anymore.

In your dreams, none of those things exist.

You haven't let yourself dream so happily since you were a teen, and there was still hope for those dreams to come true. Now, you're going to break that streak. Right now, you're sixteen again, in that bedroom with him, braiding his hair, before he _supposedly _left. You're dreaming, so really he had no where to go at all.

No one is home. Only you and he are in that big yellow house on the hill. It starts mostly the same, you brushing your fingers through his un-dyed hair, with the intention to braid it because you have nothing better to do. He tilts his head back, branding you with a dark molten gaze and curious smile. It's unmoving, and you're too mesmerized to move. He makes the first move, turning around on his arm to lean closer to you. You respond with reciprocation.

He's so close you feel the warmth of his breath on the skin above your lips… literally.

You never finish fixing his hair. Rather, what you did manage to accomplish is ruined as your fingers entangle within the fine strands.

He pulls out the band holding back your own hair, tossing it to an unknown place. His other hand, the automail one, slithers under your shirt, chilling your skin and you shiver as it travels around and up your waist. Somehow your shirt disappears and he's lowering you down onto the mattress.

In time, more clothes disappear. Soon, every single article is scattered somewhere on the floor.

There's no question where this is going. But that's okay. Neither of you have any qualms. All you feel are the caressing, sensual touches tingling across your body… your bare skin.

It feels wonderful. Nothing like you ever imagined, but better.

You love that warm glow that his gold eyes cast upon you later, when all is said and done. You love it and never want to let it go from your memory.

But he's tired, and will want to close his eyes eventually.

You're beginning to grow cold, and you open your eyes, meeting them with the sun as it begins its eclipse. This is the last time you'll see anything quite like it—you know it-and you aren't going to let so tangible get away from you without taking the most out of it. Just like the last time you saw him, that now—surprisingly—you recall with almost perfect clarity.

At this moment, what you cherish most is the sound of his voice… saying your name.

You smile sadly. And for the first time since that day, your eyes well up for him.

"I've missed you." You whisper to the fading rays of light, for the first time revealing to yourself the wound that's marred your heart ever since he left forever with his brother in tow; the one that you concealed so carefully beneath a bandage to prevent the truth from hurting you anymore.

Any remnants of the sun disappear amongst the overpowering darkness of the night.

Your sixth sense tells you that you've lost more than just a beautiful panorama with that sunset. But at least this time you were able to say goodbye.

"I'll never forget you, Ed.'

Despite the many long years, his name escapes your lips as easily as it had before.

Your only response is the cold wind rustling your hair.

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Bittersweet? I think so. At least that's what I was going for, and I don't think I could have accomplished quite as well without using this perspective.

I've edited this twice now, and it seems okay, but I'm hoping I didn't overwork the ending. I know I tend to do that when I have a point to get across. And that fantasy scene? Yeah, that's probably about as close to a lemon as I'm ever going to get.

Overall, hope this wasn't just a bunch of time wasted on my part… or yours; that there was some value of entertainment with it.

Until next time~


End file.
